Office Hours -- Chapter 1
Author's Note: I have revised this story in response to your feedback. I've extended the tease and I'm going to turn this into a series. As a result some of the scenes you remember from the original one-off story may come up again in another installment. I hope original readers like the changes and that new readers will benefit from what I'm learning from this community. Thanks!
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There's always at least one young woman in my college lecture courses that tries to flirt with me to "work the ref" when it comes to final grades. I know that it is part of the territory and I'm also aware of my lack of any real chance with these women. I'm no silver fox or zaddy. I'm an ordinary man with an ordinary middle-aged physique. I don't need to bed these women but on many occasions they've fueled my fantasies. That was good enough. Until Jenny.
Jenny wasn't plying me to earn a better grade than a 'D.' No, it was Jenny who wanted to D-grade me.
She sat in the third row of the auditorium, as most flirty girls chose. With the raked seating, third row put their legs on eye level with me, standing and droning on about economics for second-year finance majors. Some professors called in crotch row — or, for the more refined, leg row. Male or female, straight or gay, eventually someone was going to get an eyeful.
I was long used to the young women slowly swinging their knees back and forth to fan my interest. I knew to expect them to swing by my office at hours for 'advice.' With those women, I was highly protective of my reputation. I kept the door open — even had a nice door stop that I privately named D-stopper because it kept the DDs from getting better than the D's they earned. (And keeping my own D safely in my pants.) I had a chance at tenure and a wife I didn't plan to betray.
But Jenny kept her knees closed at first. She kept her legs demurely crossed at the knees though she always wore short skirts that flared around her athletic thighs. Her skin was smooth and dark and shined under the academic lighting. And maybe that was the hook. She didn't flash her panties like others. Instead, she engaged in discussions. She asked pointed questions. She got A's in all her assignments.
But one day she uncrossed and re-crossed those shapely legs, flashing a bit of white between her legs, and when my eyes quickly bounced up to her face, she was staring right at me. Not a smirk. Not a gotcha. Just a placid expression, that made me think, "Did you enjoy the view?"
I stumbled over the next few points and then made it more clear that I was flustered by pointedly not looking at her until the end of class. At which point, I managed to look her in the eyes and say, "Class dismissed."
She had dark hair and blue eyes, framed by a spray of freckles. She wore her hair back in a ponytail, tied by a simple band. She just looked down at the desk. My eyes dropped and I saw that she had her legs parallel and I could clearly see her white-gusseted panties with pink and black polka dots. She gave me that long second to take in the view and rose from her seat. My gaze returned to her face, which again, was completely nonchalant.
I watched her walk away, hips swaying as she climbed the steps up to the exits. She didn't hurry. She didn't look back until she got to the door and turned to look at me one last time, still rooted to the spot as I replayed that image in my mind. That white gusset with a small, clear oval spreading at the center.
Fortunately, it ended there. Or at least that's what I thought. For several lectures, she kept her legs crossed at the knees. But clearly, I was distracted. Too proud to be obvious, I made a point of avoiding the whole third row. But every time I felt safe to sneak a peek, I met her eyes challenging me.
Perhaps that was my undoing. By avoiding her legs and always looking her in the eyes, I realized I was looking at her more than other students. That wasn't any more proper than catching a glimpse of her panties.
And if I wanted to see some, there was a girl just two seats down who had given me every chance to catch a peek. Yet, I didn't have any struggle to keep her out of my line of sight. Jenny always made eye contact. She was placid, inscrutable, and constant.
During lectures, I found myself landing all my points on her. I was drawn to her to see if she understood the point i was making, if she got the joke, or if she had a question. I feared it was becoming a tic — eyes, legs, eyes. Wondering, "Are you open today, Jenny?"
At home, I found myself looking up her Instagram page. Then her TikTok. Even there she was remote. She smiled at the camera only with her eyes. There were videos and pictures of her with her girlfriends, and some with various men — all young and athletic. But there was no hint of her private life. She didn't have gratuitous bikini shots or anything too scandalous, yet I still tilted my phone away or scrolled away to something innocuous when my wife looked over.
My wife even once caught me on Instagram and just shook her head. It didn't bother her if I was looking at young models. We had a decent sex life. In fact, it was getting better because I found myself more aroused than usual. And she didn't seem to mind what the cause might be.
And in class when I would begin to relax and start to tell myself that I was clearly delusional or to think Jenny's behavior was anything but accidental or some product of my own projections of lost youth, Jenny would give me another peek. I'd follow my pattern — eyes, legs, eyes — and I would catch that tiny triangle, and even though I fought it, I would have to look again. And when my eyes bounced up to hers, I would catch the smallest hint of a smile in those eyes. Was it a smirk, a knowing glance, or something like pride? Victory?
But on those rare days, after class, I'd have to close my office door and jerk off. And I'd imagine my face pressed again those panties and in my fantasy when I looked up I would search those placid eyes for approval.
After a few of these events, I knew it wasn't my own delusion. She was doing it deliberately. I didn't know why and I found myself actually fearful that I would do something stupid. I was obsessing now and wanting to escalate and that could bring down everything I'd built — my reputation, my marriage, my career.
I needed to make Jenny stop and I was determined to make that case. Unfortunately, "See me after class," was the one line I couldn't use for fear of giving her an opening (or me one.)
All that changed one Friday afternoon. She showed up in her usual seat. She seemed thoughtful. She kept her legs crossed, and so I relaxed a bit. Finally, she raised her hand to answer a question and as I called on her, I saw that she had opened her legs.
I don't even know what she said. She spoke at length and I realized as she stretched her answer that she was giving me time — time to process. Because I was looking at her sheerest white panties, made transparent by the copious wetness soaking them. The fabric was pulled into and clinging to her folds, shaved clean except for a small trimmed area at the top of her vulva.
She had been fucked. And her lover had come buckets inside her. Her thighs were wet with it. It was shiny enough to surmise that he'd fucked her just before class. Maybe in his car. Or maybe, I imagined, it was in some little-used stairway at the back of the building, where she tried to stifle her moans but they echoed anyway up and down the stairs as he fucked her hard up against the wall, until he emptied inside of her. She probably looked him in the eye and bit her lip while slowly pulling those sheer, white panties up her long thighs until they covered her freshly fucked pussy, waiting for gravity and the steps from the stairwell to the auditorium to do their work of making me look like the dumbest man on the face of the earth. Because Jenny had stopped talking and was quietly watching me.
"Uh," I said, "That's exactly correct, Ms. Anderson... Uh... I don't think I have to belabor her point. Who else has a question?"
As I looked around the auditorium for any raised hand to rescue me, I did read her expression. It was satisfaction.
And of course, that's how I found myself back in my office with the door closed, ready to jerk off again.
Then a knock came on the door.
"Just a moment," I said as calmly as I could while zipping my pants back up.
I opened the door and saw Jenny's blue eyes look up at me. I couldn't speak. I only hoped she didn't see my face flushed or my hands trembling as it held the door.
"Are these office hours, Mr. Cale?"
I nodded and opened the door. I kicked the doorstop in perhaps a little too loudly and returned to my seat behind the desk. As I sat down, I hoped she didn't see my hard-on pressing against my pants. I indicated the chair in front of me. She chose the couch instead.
"How can I help you Ms. Anderson?"
"I'm curious about today's lecture," she said as she casually raised her heels to place them on the coffee table. Her knees were bent and her hips sunk down in the couch so that I was staring once again at her soaked underwear clinging to every fold of her labia. I bounced my gaze back to her eyes.
I didn't know what to say. I glanced nervously at the open door. It was a quiet area but you never knew when someone could come by. And it was my office hours; although, I'd only had one or two students come by this semester. One of my colleagues had an office next door and she taught on alternate days.
I swallowed hard and tried to keep my focus on Jenny's face. She asked me several good questions and I stammered through my answers. She kept her legs open the whole time, almost daring me to break eye contact so that I could see those messy panties one more time. And I was so good, it must have been clear how hard I was trying not to be bad because she began to smile more. As my face flushed and I became less coherent, it now seemed to be ridiculous how much I was staring into her eyes.
I waited to peek for the moment she started to ask her next question.
"I wonder if—" she started to say but as my eyes darted down at the opportunity, I realized I'd been caught. I looked back up and this time she was smiling.
"I wonder if," she began again as she stood up, "you'll be thinking of me later."
She walked to the door and I reflexively stood up, which was a huge mistake because my erection was pressing painfully against my slacks.
She pointedly looked down at my crotch and then over at the couch, where I realized there was a large wet smear on the leather where she had been sitting.
She simply said, "Have a nice afternoon, Professor," as she walked away.
I stared blankly at the empty hall before closing the door. I wondered if she lingered long enough to hear the door shut and lock, perhaps a little too quickly and loudly. I wondered if she snuck back to listen at the door for any possible sound, or if she simply knew that I would be kneeling on the floor by the couch as I hovered my nose over the wet spot on the leather and inhaled the mixed scent of sex while I jerked off onto the hard wood floor. I wondered if she heard me groan just a little too loudly as I came. Either way, she knew what I was doing. And she knew exactly what she was doing.
* * *
"You seem distracted tonight."
My wife, Sharon, was down at the end of couch. I'd lost track of the TV show we were watching. Her comment brought me out of my reverie.
"Just thinking about tomorrow's lecture."
"I'd think you'd have those all locked down by now," she said.
"I guess, I'm trying to mix it up. Every now and then a student challenges me."
"Oh, who's giving my man trouble?" She smiled, reached over, and patted my shoulder.
"It's a clever one. Ms. Anderson. She vexes me."
"Ha! Not one of your third rows, I hope!"
"No, J— Ms. Anderson is a bright one. She's ahead of the class in fact."
"Oh, well, then I hope she's smart enough to know what's good for her," Sharon said as she raised one eyebrow. Still she smiled.
"What? You don't want to share anymore?" I said.
